


dead man's song

by ludicrous_lizards



Series: alterniabound [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternia is Terrible, Alternian Revolution, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludicrous_lizards/pseuds/ludicrous_lizards
Summary: Rebellions on Alternia, historically speaking, don't go well. They fizzle. They're crushed. They're loudly and publicly executed for all to see, souvenir executioner's bows just two caegar a pop.Why any of you ever thought you'd be different is beyond imagination.
Relationships: Equius Zahhak/Gamzee Makara, Equius Zahhak/Nepeta Leijon, Eridan Ampora/Karkat Vantas, Feferi Peixes/Sollux Captor, Gamzee Makara/Tavros Nitram/Vriska Serket, Kanaya Maryam/Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, Karkat Vantas/Gamzee Makara, Nepeta Leijon/Karkat Vantas, Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido, Sollux Captor/Aradia Megido/Feferi Peixes, Tavros Nitram/Aradia Megido, Vriska Serket/Kanaya Maryam, Vriska Serket/Terezi Pyrope
Series: alterniabound [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096106
Kudos: 9





	1. aquarius apocalyptic

You were royalty, once. 

Oh, it's gotten harder to remember. Those damn fizzy soporifics are blessing in a glass, softening the edge of everything enough it doesn't hurt quite so sharp, but they aren't good for the memory. If you don't have a drink in hand, you're on a job, and then you think of nothing but the job.

But you were. Royalty. The gilt has faded, the details have been rubbed faint, but you still know that much. When days on the stool go sour and fists are introduced to your cheekbone, they come away violet. You have lace-edged gills, their most secret inner machinations lined with silk. You've kept your rings, often sitting in a box somewhere in whatever shithole hivecube you've holed up in because you'd rather not get _literally_ robbed blind on top of everything. But you've kept them anyway, all this time. Beautiful, priceless things that have never once known tarnish. A gun hangs at your hip, or above your 'coon, or across your lap, and if you were not built to hold the world on your back then you could not possibly withstand its recoil. You stare at yourself in the mirror and a lavender-eyed, sharp-toothed little princeling stares back, except now he's got a weird scar over his lip and the streak in his hair hangs limp over his face and you haven't seen the sea in so long you've nearly forgotten what it's like for those fine gills to _breathe_. The princeling staring back has, indeed, met tarnish, or some poetic poppycock you can't string together anymore because your whole pan is dedicated to keeping your dumb ass alive to see another dusk. You don't even know what for. It's just something to do, really. 

Your name is  ERIDAN AMPORA,  and you just _had_ to follow the fucking mutant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take the twelve main trolls from Homestuck (just part one, you heathen). Cut out the SGRUB. Give 'em a little bit of hope, take it away again, and age them up about six more sweeps. There's your context. 
> 
> This is a string of self-indulgent character explorations roughly designed to set up a plot. I take ideas. I take suggestions. We can play this thing like a goddamn choose-your-own-adventure, but I will write at least one Homestuck fanfic before I leave this earth and it might as well be this one. Lessgo.


	2. I — The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eridan dreams a little dream of... Someone’s. And in an important travel advisory: don't ever drink from the tap while traversing the MACS0647-JD system. It’s got spiders up all the waterspouts.

The boy is running.

He's either not very good at it, or he's not trying very hard. His little arms pump, hands curled into such tight fists his claws might do a great deal of damage were they grown. His legs flail in roughly the right movements, but he's not a natural on the sand yet; often he pitches forward, digging his palms with their little crescent-marks into the silt and seaweed before he picks himself back up. 

Giving chase is another, a real natural at this stuff. She moves smoothly, dancing more than chasing; her skirts tangle and twist in the wind, a jagged-edge smile beaming brighter than either moon. _(Isn't it strange, how light this beach is? How light it all is?)_

He glances over his shoulder, furrows his brow. The very picture of determination, this wriggler, so it must be the former: he’s a shit runner. Still, look at him go: he keeps his feet just out of the surf, his rubber-edged shoes pressed harder into the would-be betrayal of sea debris, that stubborn little set to his mouth. She's gaining ground even teasing the tide with her toes, stooping so often to pick up stones and spin them into the rippling waves _(why is the horizon so far? Why is the water so still?),_ but what he lacks in speed he makes up for in sheer will. 

And now that someone's noticed, he's gone face-first over a bit of driftwood, the poor dear. He hits the sand on elbows and knees, shoe caught, face pressed into the sand. She stops her skipping long enough to notice; and now she hurries, swooping down in a flurry of soft hands and questioning words. 

He's fine, he insists. Of course he is. These two are quite literally made of harder stuff than that. And nonetheless he takes her hand when she hoists him up, allows her to brush down the dirt, to prod at the tender leg and scraped cheek. 

When he has been declared healthy and fit for fun, she presses a chaste, childish kiss to his cheek, her hair wild, her smile so wide, so _warm_ for a pair hatched so cold.  
  
And then she taps the tip of his nose, and takes to running again. He sees now, what this is all towards: a winding spire of a temple _(that's never been there)_ that's always been there _(well you've never seen it before, so)._ Before he can give chase, she disappears inside, a giggle on the wind and a flash of silk. 

His feet move slowly on the sand, now. It's a tall temple, all smooth, black stone and a familiar sigil, the curves of intricate tentacle-works entwining up archways that come to a sharp point. A massive circle of a window, its glass stained and shattered, oversees all. As he considers it, he rests a hand, small, so small, how did they ever get this close, on the staircase. Then a little foot on the step. 

He pushes up, and _oh god your sopor has gone COLD_.

>> ERIDAN: WAKE UP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (That 12 chapter cap is a joke. A lie. A mere gape at my and perhaps your expense. 
> 
> I keep a small sideblog for notes on this fic and potentially references, playlists, et cetera. You're welcome to follow that at ludicrous-lizards.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading!)


End file.
